Saturday Night (part one)

So Saturday night was party night (and a happy birthday to you once again, Kat!), and the evening got pretty weird towards the end. I’m not sure this is necessarily a bad thing as I feel like myself again for the first time in quite a while. Following a Chinese meal and a few beers in the Dragon, we ended up in the Arcadian Reflex, dancing the night away to all the cheese the 80s had to offer. I left the party group for what was only meant to be a few minutes while I explored upstairs and things started taking a turn for the odd.

My return downstairs was delayed by my people-watching habit. I saw a couple who had just arrived dancing to “Can’t Touch This” and “Push It”, and was fascinated. The pair of them had such rapport, yet not a ring in sight. Seeing such happy people distracted me for long enough that I was still upstairs when some favourite track (and I can’t for the life of me recall what it was) compelled me onto the dancefloor. Unlike every other bloke in a mainstream bar, I don’t swarm at any attractive woman. The blokes involved look like twats as they clumsily vie with each other for attention, and the poor, beleaguered girls just look uncomfortable. Fortunately, women organise hen parties just so we can get a taste of our own medicine. I was accosted by two of the dratted things on Saturday. Because I look like a lunatic, everyone wants their photo taken with me (yes, really!) and some of the party will even take a borderline bullying delight in trying to test the limits of my social awkwardness. Being on a raised dancefloor and having positioned myself away from the testosterone scrum around a couple of pretty blondes the other side of the obligatory glamour pole, I was exposed to view as I danced with my long hair in my loud shirt. Amongst other good-natured abuse, some wag from the upstairs hen party decided she was going to kiss me and shove an ice-cube in my mouth with her tongue. The cold, wet surprise caught me so off-guard that all I could do was let the dratted thing drop from my mouth. Smooth, Rob. Smooth.

The evening forced me to the same conclusion I have to come to every time I go drinking off my beaten path: I am not going to pull in a mainstream bar. I can’t bring myself to badger at a slightly intimidated girl until she decides I amuse her enough to cave in. I look more like Noddy Holder than Brad Pitt, so any girls that accost me are more likely to be after a photo than a shag. And I’m such an incorrigible show-off that I end up mostly surrounded by blokes who want to dance with the guy who’s braver than they are and willing to entertain the crowd.

I’ve run out of my word limit for this week’s post, so I’ll tell you what happened after Reflex closed next Monday…


~ by Scary Rob on 4 October, 2010.

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